


Paris

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (1991)
Genre: Chaptered, F/M, Marriage, STRIFE!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Lies had feasted, ravenously, at her table tonight and she had let them without foresight.' A story that draws inspiration from Gomez's troublesome omission in the musical and explores what would have happened had Morticia gone to Paris. A mixture of all incarnations of the Addamses and their associated plots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing herein that belongs to me is the (very thin) plot. All else belongs to Charles Addams, Paramount and Universal.

**'When good Americans die, they go to Paris.'**

**\- Oscar Wilde**

She folded one dress over the other, neatly, methodically. Her hands were trembling lightly and she was not use to such a lack of control. Forcing bile down from her throat she groped for the bed post and took a moment to steady herself. The room was quiet, the storm had subsided, and the only noise was her hard breathing. She sat down on the edge of the bed and dipping her head, closed her eyes to regain some strength. Then she leaned over and from the side table, took the piece of privately headed stationary, and placed it neatly on his pillow.

In one undeniably humiliating moment everything she had been so sure of had been shattered. And now she felt lost. For the first time, ever in her life, she felt as if she was not any longer sure of her next move.

And Morticia always knew her next move.

She stood up again and making her way towards her dressing room, rifled through the drawers of her dresser. She plunged her hand in and withdrew the cheque book of the joint account that they shared, which was nestled between old lipsticks and cosmetic bottles. Then she opened her jewellery box and took her ruby and diamond necklace from within.

And then she committed the cardinal sin; she slipped her wedding, eternity and engagement ring from her finger. She was fond of metaphor and imagery and now the metaphor of these expensive pieces seemed broken to her. She placed them beside one and other in the lid compartment and closed it over. She breathed in quickly, her breath and body constricted, rushing forth from her in an uncontrolled manner. Her eyes blurred and her mouth curled against her teeth. She could not possibly be with him at this moment. The betrayal, however small it may seem to any outside observer, was cruelly agonising.

She would leave instructions with Lurch to have things shipped to her and with that final decision, she felt calm overcome her. Her hands ceased shaking as they gripped the cheque book, her finger felt less barren, her heart felt temporarily less broken. At least it was not emotion that was dictating her actions, instead it was the icy practicality that she considered to be her finest quality. If she let emotion rule her right now, she would be unrelentingly weak.

That was the problem, the rub, in her generally clear mind; she was too emotional about all of this...about him.

At the thought of him her stomach tightened unpleasantly. She pushed the though from her mind as she stalled at the door.

It occurred to her as she grasped the door handle that if she left those rings there, there was no going back. He would find them and read the subtext and then what? She has been so securely swaddled in this bubble for years, happiness and comfort and love are all she has known forever. With him.

And her children, her babies, that she has spent all of this time dedicating herself to. She would write, or phone more conventionally, when she reached wherever she planned to go.

Her blood pulsed through her body and she felt the sudden urge to vomit. She returned quickly to the jewellery box and pressed them back down on to her narrow finger. She wouldn't punish him like that. I can't do it, she thought ruefully. A full disclosure that made her feel weak with the submission. She couldn't do it, no matter how much she truly wanted to.

She closed her bedroom door behind her. The hall was deathly silent, where half an hour before all pandemonium had broken loose. She wanted to hate the Beinekes, she really did, but she could not hate them any more than she could hate her husband right now. And she could not be angry at Wednesday though nor could she fathom why her daughter had tried so vainly to keep the truth from her. She felt ashamed that her daughter, usually so open and transparent, had felt it necessary to keep something so vital from her. It made her feel cruelly cheated and yet made her wonder if she possessed some maternal deficit that made Wednesday feel she could not be truthful with her. She would have cautioned against it, yes, but regardless of her own feelings she would have given her blessing for her daughter to be wed. She believed fully, wholly, entirely in marriage.

Right now though, she did not believe in her own marriage. And lack of belief always posed a fundamental problem in any marriage. Lack of belief meant lack of pliable foundations if you wanted to look at it that way. And today, that was the only way she could look at it.

Lies had feasted, ravenously, at her table tonight and she had let them without foresight. That was where her most vehement anger lay. She had been so blissfully ignorant, so sure of the loyalty of him who she held most dear, that she had failed to see the deception. She was infuriated with herself. She stilled her body, prepared it for her descent, gripping the beautiful crocodile skin suitcase with determination that was manufactured from fear of the unknown. A long time ago, she had liked the unknown. She had known Paris a long time ago. She sighed lightly, perhaps she should reacquaint herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment, review, criticise.

He drove frantically, desperately. He was so unused to driving that he took no pleasure in the near deaths he caused. He was, to put it lightly, traumatised by events of the evening. Against everything that was good in him, he cursed his daughter to the ground. And let's not, he scolded himself, forget that you chose to comply with Wednesday's little scheme. A cry of rage racking through him, he slammed his palms hard on to the steering wheel and skidded to a halt outside the massive, glaring airport. Even among the throng of exhausted business men and fraying families, he would have been able to spot her. She was not there.  
“Excuse me,” he pushed forward to the information desk and pulled out a bulging money clip, “A flight to....” he paused.   
Then all of his energy left him. The woman, bemused by his intensity but impressed by the production of that number of 100 dollar bills, merely stared. He thought, once, that he had known her so well that he could predict her. Yet now he felt that this assumption had been his most paramount mistake. She was as unpredictable as an unknown poison, a mutation of nature. And god he craved her above everything.   
“Paris.” At least if he didn't find her there, it was a starting point.  
The woman shook her head, “The last flight left 2 hours ago,” she checked her computer screen, “And the next one is not till 10 a.m in the morning.”  
He pushed the money towards her, “Ok.”

Wednesday was waiting for him, sitting on the bottom step of the interior stairs, wringing her hands together. The house was dead. At least, he thought momentarily, she had made peace with Lucas.   
“Did you get her?”  
he was surprised by the frantic, flailing hand gestures and red that shadowed her usually lifeless cheeks.   
“No,” he sat down beside her.  
“Here,” Wednesday pulled something from her pocket. Immediately he recognised the scroll, loopy and spidery all at once, it was distinctive because, like her, it was perfectly formed. Like everything in her life she took time over the simplest thing, such as her handwriting. She has scored that into him too , literally and metaphorically,with a red hilted knife.   
“I went into your room,” Wednesday muttered.  
Gomez had to work very hard to bite back the comment that she ought to have stayed out of anything that was to do with him and her mother at all but fatherly respect, and ultimately love, stopped him. He unfurled the envelope; dreading and hopeful in equal measure. He really knew little of the woman he had slept beside for over twenty years but he knew enough of Morticia to know that she couldn't just let it slip away in such an awful manner. He read it, then pressed it to his heart. He heard his daughter's breath hitch in response to his action but he did not want to share with her what was written within.  
He turned to her, “She's gone to Paris.”  
“Oh...and?”  
“She's asked that I don't go after her,” he said, “But I am not listening to that.”  
They sat in pondering silence, both wondering the same thing, both frightened to voice it.   
“I am sorry father,” Wednsday was evidently trying not tot cry. His heart crumbled a little.  
“It's not your fault paloma,” he shook his head, “I should have put you in your place rather than lied for you. I am the adult.”  
“But you didn't want to.”  
“Ah,” he laughed ruefully, “The point is that I did, regardless of whether or not I wanted to.”  
“Well for what it's worth,” his daughter sighed, “I am sorry. Get back from Paris, with my mother, as soon as you can.”  
She stood up and in an uncharacteristic show of affection she bent down and hugged him. It was awkward and clumsy but it meant a lot to him nonetheless. Then she climbed the stairs quietly, leaving him there. He slumped against the bannister and felt sadness, acute and severe, coil up his spine to rest in his chest. He felt the weight of the word press between his ribs. She had left him. And he deserved it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, if you do, this story.

Morticia had been used to luxury for so long that she had forgotten the unpleasant excitement of economy travel. She was grateful, finally, to sit down on the edge of the bed and take stock of her flight (both literally and metaphorically). She stared through the massive window to the slow moving, summer-stale Siene. Right on the banks, she felt this was the room in which she would make fateful choices and she felt that it had to be right. She was at a crossroads and she needed this space to become a sanctuary. The heat of Paris pressed against the windows, closing her in. 

She placed her coat over the plushly, overly stuffed velvet seat and then lifted the phone, and giving into an instinct that was less than she expected of herself, she order the finest and most expensive red-wine on the menu.

Night fell over Paris and, curled up on the window seat, half a bottle less clear, she watched the river go by slowly and pondered the last 48 hours. It was nice for the first time in years to be able to know that no one, no matter how much she loved them, could walk in and interrupt her. She was entirely, thoroughly alone and she was reluctant to admit how good it felt. It felt peaceful and serene. She watched the spider in the corner of the window, labouring lovingly over her web, and thought of how difficult it always proved to build a strong home. At that moment, with that cliched thought, she felt entirely hopeless. 

Of course, she was spending all this time pondering her loneliness to avoid pondering the cracks that had suddenly insisted themselves upon her marriage. She was avoiding them because she could not possibly face them in a logical, thoughtful manner. She was too embroiled. She wished fretfully that she could step outwith the rope-like emotional bonds that tied her and view it entirely logically. That was the problem with emotion; you could not side-step it in favour of logical thinking.

So Gomez, she thought, holding up her bottle and measuring the remainder, what do I do about you? What do I do about my best friend when he lies? Not to mention my husband. She sighed lightly and standing up, went towards the phone. Her fingers lingered over the receiver but they would all be asleep and she did not want to wake them. And she was too much of a coward to perhaps admit her sudden decision to run had been slightly out of proportion. Perhaps she should have given him a moment to explain himself but then again, unlike any other time, he did not come after her. Gomez hadn't come after her; perhaps that was what had cut her most. She was an Addams, he was an Addams, Addamses always came back for more. 

Placing the remainder of the bottle down because she was a terrible light weight and no matter how morose she was feeling, sinking her soul into the bottom of a very expensive plonk was never the answer. So she made her way towards the huge bed in the centre of the room. She needed to sleep, if only for the break from her mind which was insisting on her.

She lay down atop the bed, staring at the rings upon her finger for a moment. They had decided to become married in such a flash that he had not had an engagement ring ready for her. As he perched at the crumbling edge of the freshly dug grave, on both knees, she knew that he was truly the most wonderful thing that would ever happen to her. Here was a man, begging to worship her. A man who had so suddenly became a part of her world he had winded her with his wonder. He had thrown himself in worship at her feet. “Of course we will marry,” she had responded in the cool manner, then to add some injurous passion, “Mon amour...”  
So of course, as Gomez always did, he went overtly over the top with the choice of the large black diamond on a band of platinum. She smiled at the memory; the simplicity of the attraction that had hummed between them then. The immediate and overwhelming physical attraction that, unusually, persisted until this day. The fun; simple and unadulterated. Hours spent at the edge of the swamp, days filled with shopping for torture devices. She wished for that time then, not because she did not want the children or love them, but because she wanted her husband more. She wanted things to be simple again. 

Then her eyes shifted to her wedding ring – nearly abandoned in her jewellery box. Heat filled her body; thoughts of passion and dancing in dark corners, of scandalised PTA meetings and extended honeymoons. Not, by any stretch of societal conventions or imagination, a normal marriage then. Just yesterday he had openly fondled her in front of those Ohioans; yet he'd forgotten to be honest with her. Where had that stopped? When had their only show of love and romance been physical? Perhaps she had missed the cue in that regard. But no, she was too perceptive for that. 

She turned on her side, wishing so much for the cold, icy quiet of their bedroom. She longed for his warm hands on her back, hip, shoulder. Now that she had deprived herself so fully of it, she would not have minded his constant pawing and requests for her to say something in French again. She wished for the screams deep in the dungeon. She wished for the cranking of the rack. He fed off intimacy, so did she. But when, she thought to herself, did that become the only thing we had? She knew, perhaps, that she was seeing this too harshly, and in fact, she felt she was indeed being overly critical but it was hard when your husband had forgotten to tell you the truth. 

Then her eternity ring; a cruel joke now? She didn't know.

She turned over and lay on her back. Paris. The city in which they had honeymooned. Young and carefree – they had bought, with the trepidation of any young couple in this first, tentative venture, their first riding crop here. The leather on it was worn and cracked within days and, being inexperienced, she had failed to use it properly so it had weakened and had very little spring in it by their first anniversary. It had long since been retired in favour of a sturdier ancestor, yet she kept it in the bottom drawer of her dresser because she couldn't bare to part with it. That was, however discreet, how sentimental she was. 

The plain and simple fact of it was that she loved her marriage. She loved her marriage more than she felt capable of loving anything. She was fiercely loyal to him, to the point of quiet hysteria, and yet he had not done that for her. She had taken his name, birthed his children, given over her heart to him on a platter. For Morticia, that had always seemed like the essentials of being an Addams; assimilate, procreate, calculate, give. She had wanted, so wholly, to give him everything and she thought she had. 

She had been pitted against her own child for his affections and lost. She would not admit to anyone, aside from herself, that this really stung. That this was the sharp, biting truth of the matter. She had been pitted against his flesh and blood, and hers, and she had lost to her own child. It was bitter and childish but nonetheless it felt good to finally admit it to herself. She loved Wednesday but she loved him more. No, it was not maternal, but it was true and she always dealt in truths. 

He had once told her he would die for her; she had told him he could do better than that. Because nothing was ever enough. She always pushed him, he always delivered. Not for the first time in her journey, the question crossed her mind; what could she have done better to make him deliver? Where, she thought ironically, had she gone wrong? 

 

She woke with a Parisian afternoon and instinctively, grievously, moved across the bed to grasp his warmth. Then after the realisation that he was not there, and would not be unless she sought him out, she cried. The tears came easily; they had awaited their time in her life as everything did in their fashion, but they flowed unrestricted on to the pillow accompanied by breathy, painful sobs. She cried herself out in the manner in which she did everything, slowly and controlled, and then dressed for a walk around the city.


	4. Chapter 4

Gomez stood in front of his desk, and rearranged the neat pile of paper work in front of him for the fifth time. He was delaying and he knew the multiple reasons why. Fear, though, was the biggest one. Thing jumped up on the desk and tapped the vintage watch around his wrist, then moved the empty Scotch glass to the side – it had been the only thing that finally lulled him to sleep after his return from the airport. He looked at the watch – he was late, he should have left by now.

"I see that," he said to the pet, "Has Lurch loaded the car?"

His old friend gave a thumbs up, then jumped up on his shoulder.

"Am I a fool?"

The hand squeezed his shoulder in a resounding yes and Gomez grumbled, "I never thought I'd see the day that Morticia would leave me...but I know you did."

Thing jumped onto the dresser in the hall and handed him the fedora that had been lying there.

"Didn't you?"

Thing gave a sheepish thumbs up and Gomez groaned, "I won't even ask why, but I always knew she was too good for me."

Wednesday, a tired looking Pubert on her knee, and Pugsley were chatting quietly in the parlour as he passed by. The fire was crackling in the hearth. He stopped for a moment in the doorway. The sight tugged at his heart and the absence of his wife was palpable. Pubert looked up and then walked slowly towards him.

"You shouldn't have lied for Wednesday...mother hates liars more than anything."

Gomez felt, in that moment, smaller than he had ever felt or would ever feel. When your 6 year old child was chastising you, you knew you had truly made a complete mess.

"I know," he pulled the boy in close, ignoring the horror he felt at being roundly scolded by his own son, "That's why I am going to Paris."

"She will come back," Pugsley suddenly said into the air, as if speaking to no one, "Because, despite herself, she loves you but he is right; she hates liars. She'd like you to this the contrary, our mother, but she couldn't live without you."

All of them turned to look at Pugsley, who had an uncanny habit of speaking with extreme clarity at moments when everyone else felt lost. He often underestimated his son in that regard. He smiled at them, as best he could, and was reminded of the Tully and Dr Pinderschloss business. The fact that he had ever watched 'Sally' still made him cringe with humiliation and he had sworn to himself that he would never put his family through that sort of horror again. He stood up straight, pushed back his shoulders and smiled.

And through all of that his wife had been truly and honestly supportive.

He motioned to Wednesday with a gloved hand, "May I speak with you privately?"

She followed him out into the quiet of the hall.

"Keep an eye on your mother's conservatory," he requested quietly, "And your brothers I suppose."

She didn't say anything, merely inclined her head once. He didn't know how to ask this, but it was a genuine concern (one that had been vying for attention over the distraught thoughts that his wife may have left him) and so he puffed out a breath and said; "How are you and Lucas?"

She shrugged, "I like him more than mother likes you just now," she said it without malice. Just like her mother Wednesday only ever dealt in truths. He tried to hide from her the fact that her words had winded him.

"Not a straight answer, paloma," he laughed slightly.

"We are fine," she intoned, as if she was sharing the biggest secret she could share. Wednesday was never very animated, and he didn't expect it from her, so he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed there. She tried a smile which in the end was more of a grimace.

" I am sorry..." She dropped her eyes to the floor, "I never thought asking you would make it like this. I thought mother would get annoyed but really -"

"Stop it," he interrupted her gently, "You have already said sorry. And if I were to explain my role, my part in it, as father and husband I would be here all day. I have a flight to catch, my little hellion."

On his way out the door, he though to himself that he should discard that affectionate nickname he had for her since the moment she first stabbed him with one of her mother' knitting needles. She wasn't so little any more, not in the metaphorical manner anyway. Wasn't that where the whole thing had stemmed from, that she wasn't so little any more?

Gomez hated flying, almost more than Morticia did. He opted for economy – because he liked the horrendous confinement and incapability – but all the way to Paris, an infant did a handsome and relentless jig on the back of his chair. He didn't mind children but then again, the only children he had had direct contact with had been his own so he supposed that didn't count. He preferred liners because they were more dangerous and likely to flounder. If you looked at the odds (which, as any well traveled man should have, he had done) it was clear that in the grand scheme of things this was a safer method and less peril meant less fun.

He dipped his head lightly and attempted to get some sleep. He had been awake all night, their bed too big and their room to empty. That was the wonder of Morticia – she took up very little space, yet she invaded everything and all that he was. He thought of the night he first saw her, gliding across the ground as a spirit, her head tilted towards the moon as she weaved within the tombstones of his relatives. The light had shone across her skin in an almost undignified manner, making grey the velvet of her cloak. She tipped her face towards him, a whisper of a smile on blood red lips.

"Hello Mr Addams."

And time itself made a fool of him in that moment, from those unalterable words – as if she had waited on him forever. His world, so secure until that moment, tipped from its axis into a universe of unknown pleasure and pain. He relished in her, he relished in everything she was. He could still feel the damp earth against his knees as he fell to the ground before her. And her pale hand proffered to his lips, thought it was not submission, for to wordlessly kiss the pale skin there.

He shifted in his seat, signaled to the hostess to bring him another drink, and thought about her unbelievably pale skin. The smell of damp earth and bitter almonds that rose from it, bled onto the sheets that they shared, rested within the folds of her clothes. He could have tasted it forever and never be sated. He thought of the contrasting black leather of a whip against this skin; how rare an occurrence that was but when it did occur he could barely manage himself.

"Cara mia," he whispered, barely audible under his breath, "Cara mia, what have I done?"

There was no answer and he wondered, indeed, if there ever would be.

Rain glistened on the streets of Paris and with no Lurch to drive him, he hailed a taxi.

"L'hotel Montmatre, s'il vous plaît?"

The driver gave him a quizzical look, then nodded.

They had honeymooned here, based in that hotel, and when they had toured around Europe a number of years ago, they had booked the suite in between Berlin and Zurich. It was decorated similar to their home and, dark and dusty, had become something of a nostalgic conversation that often sprung up between them thereafter.

What a wondrous honeymoon it had been. He had walked through it as if in a dream, the only thing he touched and felt was her. He had spoiled her because with her he was spoiled. She had returned expecting their first child, their little Wednesday and after that life had flowed like innumerable, beautiful paintings. A series of illustrious drawings and snapshots. 'An Addams' Progress'.

He was delightfully contented with his life – he always had been. He had more money than he could spend in his life-time, and the building of his empire was more of a hobby than a necessity. He took great pleasure in the mundane, everyday raising of children and the chores that he was led to believe other men found troublesome. He liked playing with them and teaching them how to sword fight, reading them a bed time story like 'Titus Andronicus' and 'Macbeth'. He didn't mind parent teacher conferences or writing cheques for gifts and parties. And he did it all with the commitment and verve that he possessed, simply because he knew no other way.

And then there was his marriage – complicated and uncomplicated at the same time, but never difficult. He had never found his marriage a chore. It had never caused him any strife, or forced him to work. It was so effortlessly wonderful to be married to a woman who was, in every way, his equal.

She had never, ever asked him for anything. He could think of no one circumstance where she has asked for any more than his honestly. She had never asked for satisfaction, she had never asked for gifts of jewels, she had never asked him for money – he had given her it all without her ever asking. The only promise she had ever requested of him was his unfailing honesty – that he had broken . He had never stopped to consider this very fact. Not once had Morticia made a request of him that was unfair, yet the requests that she had made only bettered his life. Do it again, mon amour? But the flail, I prefer, Gomez? Will you love me forever?

He had flourished her with gifts and with toys, with furs and diamonds. Not once had she asked for any of that. He had failed to deliver the one thing she needed. After many years of marriage, he had risen from his position at her feet, where he so belonged, and looked her in the face. A stupid, foolish mistake.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow and stared at the yellowing, molded cornucopias that adorned the ceiling. The room was cool and damp, and it reminded him of home. He had asked if a Madame Addams was staying here but they had refused to tell him. He was both impressed by their dedication to privacy and irritated in equal measure because his inclination had been that she would have come here, if anywhere. She could be two doors down, or two blocks away or 2 thousand miles. If he had to spend his entire life looking for her, he really wouldn't have minded. He would have scoured the very earth for her, if only to hold her in his arms, to have her make her gentle requests from that delightful tongue, to taste the dry sparks of electricity on her skin. And to apologise, to apologise so very much for his mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

Morticia trailed her fingers across the books, making rivulets in the thick dust that covered the titles. She had been delighted to find this bookshop, with its grimy windows and chipping sign, which had so enthralled her on her last trip to Paris. She found a delightful first edition of 'Lady Chatterley' here and a rare copy of the first ever, unrevised edition of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray.' They had a relatively well-looked after copy in their library at home but Gomez had insisted she buy it. It stayed in the drawer beside her bed – hers entirely and completely. One of her little possessions that she so loved, not because of what it had been, but because of what it was borne from.

Her hand trailed along a series of finely bound leather books, landing on an anthology of work from Robert Browning. On impulse she pulled it from the shelf and took it the counter.

"This is a poet you like?"

The man behind the counter smiled at her, his accent the only thing marring his perfect English. Sometimes this angered her about Paris; everyone was so competent with English that she rarely had the opportunity to explore her knowledge of French. Her understanding of the Gaelic tongue was extensive and almost second nature, yet it was often hard to exercise her capabilities practically in the place where she thought it would be most useful. She nodded.

"Oui," she took the wrapped book and handed over the Francs, "I am a fan of 'Porphyria's Lover'."

He laughed kindly, "Dark tastes?"

"Absolutely."

From thereon she made her way through the streets to the Place de l'Hotel de Ville, stopping for a moment to stare out across the square which had once been host to much bloodier and more vicious pursuits. Of course, then it had been known as the Place de La Greve and had been the home of the Convention and the birthplace of the Jacobins. This was where Wednesday's two idols, a strange combination of Marie Antoinette and Robespierre, had met their downfall in different ways. Wednesday, she thought to herself as she sat outside a small café with a tea, had very odd tastes in idols. Perhaps she liked them because her parents were also polar opposites – then again, Marie Antoinette would never have married Robespierre.

She pulled her shawl further around her and pushed her sun glasses up her nose. The tea warmed her, on what was a surprisingly cool day for summer, and she felt suddenly calm for the first time in the last 3 days. All it was missing, she thought ruefully, was a spot of arsenic.

She was so used to calm that it had shattered everything she was to feel so out of control. She had fled him, not because she had fallen out of love with him, but because it hurt her too much to be in love with him at that moment. What a contradiction that was in all its terms. She laughed a little at the irony and understood fully the cliché of American psychology that it was important to put some distance between yourself and the incident. Now that she was 3 days, a continent and 3 quarters of a bottle away from the non-argument she had had with him, she could see things in a much clearer light. Or at least, she could see her next steps.

She knew now, where she needed to be.

It felt much like home, though there was a far more illustrious clientele in Père Lachaise Cemetery. She stopped at the gates, then skirted the perimeter stopping every few monuments to read or admire. There was something vital about death. She liked the unrelenting choices it made people make; yes, it showed people in their worst light but most often in their best. That was, perhaps what she liked about it most. She liked the idea that it was so utterly, entirely final.

She glided towards Abelard and Heloise's grave, then came to a halt at a bench across from the very beautiful mausoleum with its imposing Gothic design.

She sat, pondering the architecture in a way she hadn't done since before the children. She had stopped at times throughout the years, but it was because she was stealing moments she would have to pay back rather than because she had time. Their story was one of great romance – started illicitly, much as her marriage had been. She could relate to them, this tortured couple who had not been as fortunate as her and Gomez.

Her thoughts moved to the Beinekes; that poor, frustrated couple over whom, if she was willing to admit it, she had cast a very judgemental eye from her pedestal under which Gomez knelt. Or at least, that was what she had thought at the time. How the mighty fall, she thought ruefully, as she closed her eyes and revelled in the silence that rested over the graveyard. To that end as well, the irony had not escaped her. The Beinekes were probably holed up in their middle-priced hotel rediscovering why they liked each other in as many ways humanely possible while her and Gomez had come to their first ever juncture. Perhaps it would have been better if they had come to this junction sooner than they had right now because they had grown complacent in their genuine trust of each other. Right now it seemed like a cruel joke to her that the Beinekes had come out of the other end of this far better than them. Of course, that had ultimately been the issue; they had not expected it, the Beinekes were always looking for their next fight. The Addamses did not even know how arguments even started.

Yes, her judgement on others had blinded her to their own discrepancies. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and startled at the fact that she had been there alone and then she was not. But she relaxed as the grasp suddenly seemed utterly familiar. Was she angry that he had followed her? She didn't know.

"You do have such a predictable taste for historical sights."

The rasping, gentle Castilian made her heart sing for a moment. It had been an unfamiliar sound for what felt like an eternity. He came round from behind the bench, not once removing his hand from her shoulder.

She suddenly felt nervous in the face of this reunion but she stayed perfectly still, for fear that she would do something too soon.

"I thought you would be hard to track down," he muttered, " I knew you would arrive here eventually or at least...I hoped."

He sat down beside her on the cold stone, leaving a few inches between them.

"I -"

"Don't speak," she whispered, reaching for his hand.

She was asking a lot of him, but after what they had just enforced on each other, she supposed that a few more minutes without talking wouldn't do them any harm.


	6. Chapter 6

He had stopped at a café, and noted a table that had yet to be cleared a few seats from his. The porcelain cup had a moon-shaped red lipstick stain, a very familiar and unique colour around the rim. He didn't want to seem completely odd and ask but he was content that he was on the right track. His pleasure was short lived however, as he left without ordering and strode towards the metro stop that would take him to the cemetery, and he realised he had no clue what to say to her when he did see her. 'Sorry' seemed like such an ineffectual start, and throwing himself at her feet seemed a little contrived so he didn't know what to do. He hoped instinct told him what to do – though recently his instinct hadn't been excellent in terms of marriage direction. If he had had any direction at all, he would have told Wednesday that he would not keep her engagement a secret. He would have marched her to Morticia and made her show that infernal engagement ring. Right now, if he had done that, he would be drinking a brandy in the parlour, in Morticia's fine company, after putting his son to bed. He would have a cigar, a content family, and most importantly, a deliciously unhappy wife.

The cemetery was deserted, and the sun was making an attempt to push through a cloudy sky. All in all, it was a perfect day for visiting a cemetery so he hoped she would be there. He threaded his way through the monuments, stopping every time there seemed like a place someone might pause. He made his way towards Abelard and Heloise's grave as he knew it was a particular favourite of his wife's after his search proved fruitless.

She was there, facing towards the tomb, her black hair tricking down onto her velvet cloak like oil. His heart, quite literally, stopped. He didn't think, really that finding her would have been this simple. She didn't give herself away easily – yet here, she was completely at ease.

Her shoulders were less angular. Softened; she had relaxed them and loosened her neck. Her hands were pushed out from her body and lightly curled around the edge of the bench. He stepped behind her and couldn't resist placing his hand on her shoulder. She flinched, from surprise rather than disgust.

He squeezed lightly, for fear that he may well burst into tears, hoping to convey everything of his apology in that one touch.


	7. Chapter 7

They sat like that for a while, fingers pressed together. She resisted the urge, though it was quite overwhelming, to climb into his lap and let him hold her. She wasn't normally so resistant of what her heart was telling her to do – not with him anyway – but she couldn't give in, for fear that he might think that they did not need to discuss what had occurred. She knew she may be being a little simplistic in that regard but she couldn't risk that she might choose never to mention it again because from the moment she did crawl into his lap, she would just be grateful that she was there. She might forgive him everything, just for his warmth and security.

It made her shameful with need. So she resisted, instead she locked their fingers together. When had she become so ridiculously fragile? She looked down to their joined hands; olive skin, pressed against pale white. They were, she had always known, quite different people.

He breathed out into the silence and she knew he was about to say something.

"Where are you staying?"

She turned to look at him for the first time because his voice had startled her. He said it as if he was biting it back. His jaw was tightened, his face solidly unemotional.

"The one we stayed in the last time we were here. L'Hotel de-"

"I know it," he laughed a little, "I'm there too."

He didn't stall at her use of French – and with her resolve shattering like glass, she was grateful that he didn't.

She slid nearer to him, so their hips were pressed together. Even in its austerity, the contact was electric because of the previous absence of any contact at all. He sucked in a breath, she held hers.

"I missed you," he murmured, turning to press his face into her hair. His hand grasped her upper arm.

"I know," she closed her eyes against the sensation. Her husband was clever when he wanted to be. His breath was whispering across her ear and neck – he had long ago found her weakness and now he was exploiting that sacred knowledge.

"What will I do with you?" She asked quietly, with a hint of humour in her voice.

She had forgotten how easy it was to be with him. She had forgotten the ease of conversation, the genuine humour that passed between them, the connection that was forged out of threads of steel. The ease and speed at which she capitulated to his nearness.

He laughed, though it was not without a note of sadness, into her hair.

"Forgive me, cara mia?"

She looked at him, "I longed for you."

There was no hint of humour in her voice.

"You can't know how good that is to hear," he said slowly, the words getting lost in his strong accent. When he was emotional, at either side of the grand scale of his emotional capability, she could most hear his Castilian accent. It occurred to her how much she loved that accent. After how he looked, and the way he had dressed, his accent had been her most favourite thing about him when they first met. Over the years he had trained it into an almost nomadic intonation, the thick Spanish lilt getting lost in a debonair use of English and his years at European and American schools and colleges.

When had she stopped listening to it?

"Say something in Spanish."

He looked at her, taken a little aback by the reversal of request.

"Ti amo, ti amo querida," he indulged her as she listened, as if it were precious music.

"Thank you. I missed your voice."  
She didn't want to say "I missed your accent" because she thought it sounded rather foolish.

"Where do you want to go?"

She wasn't sure where really, but she knew it couldn't be the hotel. She would give in then, to him, without much seduction on his part. All he would have to say was that he loved her. She was genuinely dumbfounded by her own need. Had she been 20, she would have tortured him into submission. She feared that she was losing touch but it didn't seem to matter. She did not, could not, resist the desire and she didn't want to. Was this maturity? Was it the same as giving in?

She was shocked at this unbridled, uncontrolled desire that was flooding her. She wondered if he could tell – if the desire she was feeling was transferring into him through their pressed bodies. It horrified her that she wanted him so much. That the roles appeared to be very suddenly reversed. She was angry at herself too. She was angry because she was willing to declare the issue that had come between them inconsequential just so she could lie in his arms.

"Let's go the river," she suggested quickly.

He stood up and, gentlemanly as always, offered her his hand, "Splendid idea Tish."


	8. Chapter 8

The sun, thankfully, decided to bow out of its struggle with the clouds. The grey muggy weather was a perfect accompaniment to a stroll along the river's banks and for a while, they did so in silence. She had grown tired of walking, and though she was loath to admit it, her body was growing tired. Threading her arm through his, she leaned her head against his shoulder. Eventually they arrived at the Cathedral, and they stopped before what she considered to be the finest church in the world. It was unusually quiet, though she suddenly realised it was late afternoon and most people would be retiring to dinner or to bars around the city.

"Do you think the hunchback is home?"

She still found this feeble joke funny and she gifted him a turn up of her lips.

"The gargoyles are my favourite," she said absent-mindedly.

"Aren't the ones in our bathroom modelled on them?" He pointed to one, "Isn't that one above my sink?"

"Yes," she nodded a little as they wandered towards one of the trees that lined the square, "I was very specific."

"You were."

What followed was that silence that everyone was familiar with. The one that implies that what must come next is the conversation you should have been having all of that time you were making small talk. She could count on one hand the number of times this silence had imposed itself on them as a couple. They stopped underneath the tree's vast canopy. She looked at him, the sun filtering through the leaves throwing strange flecks of light and darkness onto his face. He looked like a nervous school boy. From the tension creasing his forehead, to the way he was boring the toe of his wing-tips into the grass at his feet, it was evident that he was anxious. She wondered if he could see his anxiety reflected in her. She certainly wasn't boring her toes into the ground but she was making a huge effort to still her hands from shaking. She clasped them in front of her as she faced him head on. Under the tree, it felt like just them. In the shadow of Notre Dame they stood, waiting on each other to speak.

"I am so sorry," he finally said.

The tension that had coursed between them snapped like fine thread at his words.

"You lied to me," she said it as if she was shocked, as if it was the first time she had realised it. It was odd because that was exactly how it felt every time she thought about this fact. The idea was so alien to her that it literally left her dumbfounded every time she remembered it.

"I...yes," he murmured, his eyes downcast, "By omission..."

"I think that is the worst thing. You kept it from me intentionally. You wanted to keep it from me," she whispered and she didn't mean to sound so vicious, but she did, "You went behind my back."

He merely shrugged, already defeated, "I know but it was, I thought, for the right reasons. Well no, perhaps for the wrong ones. She was frightened and nervous and - "

"There are no right reasons to lie to me," she said curtly.

Morticia never shouted and she never lost her temper but it felt as if a dam had been opened within her. Anger was pouring forth, stopping only because her body ended at her extremities. If it did not, her anger would have continued forth and spread out onto the square. It had pooled at her fingertips and was gushing forth from her mouth instead.

"Why on earth would you keep her secret? It is so, so insulting. I did not deserve it. Not from Wednesday," she said coldly, "But certainly not from you. What did you think I would do?"

He held his hands out, signalling helplessness.

"I have never asked you for anything, Gomez, other than your honesty," she continued, "I might have disagreed but I would never have stopped them. What could I possibly do? There's nothing more grounding than realising you are completely without control and that the man you love most in the world is duplicitous in that. That is what you did to me. I love her and I want her happiness. However you..."

Her quiet, incisive monologue had come to a stall. She felt breathlessly angry and yet not once had her voice gone above a whisper. She exhaled a little breath and she managed to finish with;

"You just thought about your happiness and you let her have an opinion of me that was unfair."

She felt the catharsis that came with honesty and she felt suddenly drained. She leaned against the tree, feeling the rough bark against her hands, and enjoyed the sensation of complete emptiness that came with guilt-free admission.

"I know," he spoke into the air, "I know I was a fool. A complete fool. I was foolishly overwhelmed. Not once has she shared anything with me, and Morticia, cara mia, you must know that I was touched by that. I felt very trapped, between what I knew was right and how flattered I felt."

She looked at him for a moment, "When was it ever acceptable to be divided? I did not have children with you so they could tear us apart, in fact the very opposite. You know what I was giving you when I gave you our children."

"I know!" He raised his voice a little, "I am so aware of that. But it was not her fault, and nor was it the boy's. I could have simply refused to do it and, half-heartedly, I tried."

She could not help herself from laughing slightly at his refusal to use Lucas' name and anyway, she found suddenly that her anger had fled her. As he stood in front of her, a Victorian vision of debonair, it struck her how far away it felt from the time she had chosen to take her suitcase and go.

He ran his hand over his pomaded hair, slick and shining, and then over his eyes, "Morticia. I know I made a colossal mess. I am so acutely aware of the fact that I was completely and utterly in the wrong. But believe me, my heart was truly in the right place. I defended you. I told her she was being ridiculous but she couldn't see sense. And did I blame her? no. She is in love, and love makes us do strange things. I did it because I didn't know what else to do."

She nodded, "I know that."

And she really meant it. She knew entirely that her husband was a genuinely decent gentleman. He was ferociously loving of his family, to the point that he often did things without thinking. In the space of a few moments, she was able to recall at least five occasions on which he had allowed his love for those around him to cloud his judgement. It had been that ferocious passion that had so attracted her to him in the first place. He was full of fire.

"You left me," he suddenly said, his voice no more than a mumble.

She looked at him, and saw for the first time that there was hurt in his eyes. It was very difficult to hurt Gomez (not physically of course, she was an expert at divesting just enough pain to make him ecstatic). Everything bounced off him in a mannerly fashion. He wasn't easily hurt by her actions and it had not occurred to her that her flight may have hurt him.

"I couldn't sleep," he said, sinking down onto the ground. There was little fire in him when he said that. She was genuinely shocked at his admission and was momentarily embarrassed that she had so hurt him.

He pulled his velvet coat around him and flipped the collar up, fiddling with the ascot around his neck.

"I really never thought you'd do that."

She held out her hand and he looked up at her, confusion evident on her face.

"My darling, you don't really expect me to sit one, without your assistance," she motioned to the grass below her feet, "And two, on the actual grass."

He straightened out his legs, and brushed his coat from either, so it fanned onto the ground beside his thighs. Using his hand, she levered herself, rather gracefully, into his lap. Her face was close to his. The warmth that bled between them made her shiver in pleasure.

Evidently his attempt at exercising extreme self-control was waning. He weaved his arms around her, locking her in place. She touched his face lightly.

"You broke a vow..." he murmured.

"I know, so did you."

"Touche."

"That's French Gomez," she teased, fiddling with the diamond pin in his ascot.

"It just isn't the same," he laughed. It was a genuine guffaw and just the sound made her feel better.

"I am sorry," she said seriously, lowering her voice, "I know I was rash. I just..."

"I understand why you did it," he said softly, "I just don't like that you did do it. It really did panic me. The reason it panicked me so entirely that I could barely function was because I have never, ever spent a night away from you. At one point or another, we always lie down together, or speak, or something."

"I am sorry mon amour," she sighed, pressing her forehead to his, "I am entirely sorry. Not even death will part us, I swear it to you."

He pressed his hand to his breast pocked, then the pocket at his hip. He shrugged and spoke as if she knew exactly what he meant, "Oh I forgot."

"Forgot what?" She was growing uncomfortable on his knee and using his shoulder, pushed herself up, "Help me up please Gomez."

Her request proved hard given the constraints of her dress, but he managed.

"My cigars," he held her hand as she stood, then joined her. He brushed the little stray blades of dry grass from the thick velvet of his coat, "And I really could smoke one right now. I need it."

"We can go back to the hotel."

He did not miss the implicit suggestion on her mouth. The way her eye brow arched and she intended it to be that way.

"No," he folded her arm in his, pressing her hand to his chest, "I mean I forgot them. As in, the last time I had a cigar was in bed after you left."

She raised a brow, "You had a cigar in bed?"

He laughed a little, "It was more of a consolatory ""You're on your own tonight kid" kind of cigar."

She squeezed his chest discreetly, her nails digging in, "I can forgive you that then. Will we go and purchase some? Oh Gomez," she whispered, "How have you survived? A transcontinental flight and marital strife? You must be dying for a La Gloria Cubana."

"Even the way you say it make them sound delicious. Which, inadvertently, they are..." he said, "I mean, what wife can remember the name of her husband's cigars and say it in a way which makes it sound completely visceral?"

"Only yours," she threaded her fingers with his, " I remember it because it was the first thing I ever memorised about you. It's hard to distinguish between the smell of cigar smoke and the smell of husband. I find it disgustingly pleasant. So, shall we buy you some cigars?"  
"Will I need them?"

"In all likelihood."

He laughed unctuously and slipped his hand around her waist.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Adult content.

They stood in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, a paper bag of ludicrously expensive cigars bumping against his leg. 

“You dragged me,” she sighed wistfully, “From the comfort of our honeymoon bed, just so you could kiss me here.”

“Can I kiss you here again?”

“You don't have to ask my permission,” she whispered, “At least, not always.”

With a flourish he pulled her into his arms, the paper bag dropping to the ground as, taking her weight in his arms, he dipped her backwards and kissed his way up her neck. She gave into him with complete abandon. 

She gave in with the same abandon as she had at the Tower at various romantic, strategic points on their blissful walk back to the hotel. He danced her around L'Hotel de Ville, no concern for onlookers, and kissed her just over the spot where the guillotine had completed her bloody work. 

“At least,” he conjectured as he held the door to the hotel open for her, “We don't have to worry about different hotels.”

“No,” she agreed, “But different rooms.”

“Oh,” he feigned astonishment, “I thought you would want separate rooms.”

“I was angry, not void of sense,” she whispered lustily, “My room is nearer.”

“So it is,” then he looked puzzled, “Is it?”

They stopped at the from desk, and his hand tapped impatiently against the surface of the mahogany. The receptionist gave them both keys.   
“2nd floor,” she stated, as she led him towards the lift.

He shrugged, “5th. I took the suite.”

“Such expensive taste...monsieur Addams,” she whispered. 

She felt his hand contract around hers, his knuckles whitening. Nonetheless, she reached for the button and pressed the gilt number 5.

“But your room,” he pulled her flush against him, so she was facing the lift doors and he was behind her, “Is nearer.”

She could feel, not too subtly, why that may be an issue for him. 

“Don't make me go up 3 more floors than I need to,” he groaned. 

“There is nothing,” she let out a little sigh as he ran his hands up her arms, causing her to shiver, “Wrong with a little patience and training. And anyway, you should always want to do more than you need to for me.”

“You make an entirely valid and reasonable point. I do,” he moved her hair to one side and trailed his lips from behind her ear to the nape of her neck, “Have some very necessary 'making up' to do.”

The lift heralded it's arrival at the floor with a sharp 'bing' and the heavy doors, panelled with wood, slid open. He stepped forward and out first. Then, as she stepped across the lift threshold he scooped her up in his arms. She didn't quite have to stifle a scream but she did let out a little gasp of surprise. 

He strode down the hallway, not looking at all where he was going, maintaining the most intimate of eye contact with her. Placing her gently on her feet, he handed her the key to the suite. Morticia hated modernity in all its crudeness, but at this moment, more than anything she wished for one of those infernal card swipes that opened the door. He was using his fingers to draw little patterns on her hips and with his other, was tracing lines up and down her neck. It seemed like the most innocent of caresses, but it carried with it so many promises. 

She finally managed to turn the lock and preceded him into the room. It was dark and cold and she was flooded with the delightful memories of their previous stay there. She slipped the button of her cloak free from the loop, and it puddled around her feet. Then she turned to him. He was still standing at the door, though he had closed it as soon as they had come in. While he had been observing her, he had been unbuttoning his shirt. As he stood, his shirt lay wide open, exposing his well toned chest. Never had she been so grateful for his hours of fencing. 

Suddenly he charged towards her, ripping his shirt fully from his body. He pushed her against the nearest wall, though she moved very willingly, his hands firm on her shoulders as his lips crashed onto hers. Their kiss was incredibly heated and she moved her hands onto his face to exert some control. She pulled back a moment.  
“You need to calm down,” she gasped, as his lips landed on the pulse on her neck. He did not listen. He reached down, his hand impatiently pulling her skirt up to her waist. The material was tight, but it gave easily under hands that had been doing the self-same thing for years. 

“Gomez...mmmm,” she purred, “Mon amour, mon sauvage...”

He merely growled as the liquid gold dripped from her tongue, and grazed his fingers along the top of her stocking. She laughed, a visceral, delightful, animal noise and fell gloriously into this experience. 

 

he joined her in a predatory growl as he pulled the suspender strap from the skin of her thigh, and with a loud snap, let it go. She let out a little yelp of delight.   
“You brave, brave man...”

He hooked his hand under her leg and pulled it around his waist. Then reaching down between their bodies, attempted to rip her panties. She usually cared for her clothing, but in the desperately greedy situation they were both in, it seemed a little selfish. 

“So many,” he tugged at the lace and it gave a little, “Ridiculous undergarments.”

“As much as it may pain you,” she rasped, desire thickening her voice to the point where she felt incoherent, “You're going to have to unhand me so I can remove these infernal constraints.”

She wriggled out of her tight dress, using an elegant flick of her foot to kick it across the room. She watched him as he undid his trousers and kicked off his shoes, but in the process aimed too high and shattered a vase on the barren dresser. The giddiness that was evidently overcoming them both was infectious and she genuinely couldn't remember the last time their love-making had been so unsophisticated that it had elicited a laugh from them both. It was usually (and very pleasurably) dark and delicious and fun in the most carnal manner but it had been a long while since it was giddy. When had it become, she thought for a brief moment, so very elaborate?

“You'll have to replace that.”

“Oh will I now?”

He pulled the laces from her corset with a violent tug, and finally, deliciously, had what he wanted as it dropped to the floor with a little thud. She stood in all her glory before him. No shame, in fact, utter pride in every sinew of her body. Morticia had never been shy with him. She did not hide behind her hands like other women had with him. She stood, weight balanced on one leg, her hand on her hip, her skin perfectly white. 

“The most,” he lifted her at her hips and threw her on the bed in one very fluid movement, “Perfect body in the world.”

He pressed his knees to the edge of mattress, kissing her abdomen, nipping the skin there. He trailed hot kisses across her ribs and down her sides, his hands trailing down her arms to thread his fingers with hers. 

“Venus has nothing on me,” she crawled backwards, letting out a vicious little squeal as he gripped her ankle and pulled her back to him. He wrapped her leg round his hips, and moved forward so his arms were supporting his weight on either side of her head. She gripped his bisceps as he lowered his mouth, first to her neck and then to her chest. He trailed his tongue down the gap between her breasts and continued his journey downwards, kissing along each of the bones of her hips.   
“Oh,” she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head up from his ultimate goal, just as he began to kiss her thigh. He growled angrily, the vein in his neck throbbing, his eyes black with lust. 

“I want you,” she simply said.

With a hungry roar, he climbed on top of her. She pushed him off, detaching with finesse, his lips from her neck but not before he was able to leave a substantial, stinging welt. He rested on his knees, gripping her thighs to bring her flush against his body and join them in one swift, relentless motion. For someone who barely moved, her upper body strength was remarkable and she brought her back up, off of the bed, so they were face to face. She ground her hips into him, her eyes never leaving his. He slapped his hands onto her rear and gripped her there, though whether it was desire or to stop himself from a rather embarrassing finale, she didn't know. Whatever it was, he was slowing their pace.

“I want to savour this,” he offered by way of explanation, though it was hard to discern through the gritted set of his teeth. She smiled then, slowing the rise and fall of her hips to a painful, unpredictable pace. His hands were still firm on her rear, preventing any sudden movement, and guiding. A groan of satisfaction, tinged with that dichotomy of frustration that came with this kind of stalling, escaped her lips before she could reel it back in. He was pleased, she could see, with her reaction. His eyes, black and dark pools, were unblinkingly trained on her. She felt suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. Tension pulled tight, like thick rope, in her stomach.

“I missed this,” he growled.

She tried but she couldn't help herself, “I don't blame you, mon amour...”


End file.
